


in the unconcern of void is peace

by fab_ia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Episode Related - 172, Gen, Mild Gore, Spoilers, annabelle having a good time, fear entities relishing in horror, human puppetry, spooky scary web domain, theatre - the scariest thing of all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: "she is not the one who controls the acting, here, that is another. one far less human than her, walking on eight legs rather than two, one not so used to blending in amongst crowds of faceless puppets. she is merely passing through."annabelle cane observes.(fic for 172, spoilers)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14
Collections: WLW Writing TMA Women





	in the unconcern of void is peace

the old theatre - or, she supposes, the _new_ theatre, by whatever definition of the words still exist in this blackened world - is dusty, grime and filth ground into the carpets and boards that cover the floor. her step is light, somewhere approaching careful apprehension, a dancer’s gait, worn shoes barely making a sound as she walks. she walks, and she observes, as much as that is not her job, but her eyes are open and she sees despite the roles assigned to everyone in this world by powers much greater than her own.

there’s a sudden creak as her weight shifts, floor giving way from once-red carpet to a section where the soft covering has been torn away to expose the old wood, and annabelle lets a soft laugh escape her as she shakes the old, long-unnecessary fear away and walks down to the stage.

this stage is bare, at this moment, the hooks hanging from the lighting rigs tangled around metal beams and rods, silvery-white threads shining through the dullness. this feels normal, somehow, some _where_ , and annabelle rocks back on her heels for the barest moment as she stands in silence. there’s a breath, between a row of seats in the stalls. 

her hand reaches out, a half-aborted motion, lingering in midair with her fingers beginning to curl up as she lets it simply hang. another avatar, if they’ve managed to escape this, if they haven’t been locked into the endless motions of playing out some deranged, sickening torture. they’ve either wandered far from their domain, having not known it was ever their domain at all, or they’re like her. or, they’re one of _hers_.

annabelle walks on.

she is not the one who controls the acting, here, that is another. one far less human than her, walking on eight legs rather than two, one not so used to blending in amongst crowds of faceless puppets. she is merely passing through, ignoring the rust-coloured stains on the carpet, bouncing twice on the balls of her feet before hoisting herself up to perch on the edge of the stage.

paint flakes off beneath her palms, as expected, and she folds one leg over the other and looks out at the empty auditorium. their domain. _hers_. she likes it.

below the stage, in a dressing room, a throat tears, guttural sobs and shrieks wrenching their way from the tortured flesh as another actor gives in, choking as the hooks dig their way into their pale skin, scarlet running down their jaw and staining their already-filthy shirt and trousers, face contorting with the pull of the strings by the puppeteer. one arm lifts clumsily to wipe the blood from their mouth, and annabelle leans back, looking up at where there once would have been a worker, hands red-raw with burns from badly-coated rope barely holding up old scenery. now, there is a mass, colours indeterminate and seemingly shifting as she shakes her head side to side to feel the brush of her hair against her shoulders.

“the audience will love them,” annabelle says, promises. “would you like some assistance setting the stage, this time? i remember how it was marked down in the script.”

there is no reply, and annabelle leans back with her eyes closed, listening to the drag of the table against the worn-down stage. below, the actor takes their first step up the stairs, and annabelle lets herself drop back down to the floor as the door to the theatre opens, rusted hinges protesting.

“ _exeunt_ ,” she laughs. “i’m sure this will be your best performance yet, francis, dear.” her voice carries just enough that the figure in the wings can hear, but the pair walking in cannot, not over their own conversation, not over their own movements. 

she looks up at the auditorium, the seats, now occupied by countless anonymous bodies. she bows, one arm outstretched, although she would like to imagine her shadow showing two extra along with it. imagine it looming, outstretched, drawing each of them closer.

“enjoy the show,” she says.

the corridor is silent for a few moments, one half going to the left of the main auditorium, while the other enters, following her path, listening to the announcer’s voice crackle with so-familiar static. annabelle leans her head against the wall and listens.

“ _the tragedy of francis_ ,” she hears, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> no i dont think this is in any way canon, i just like annabelle a lot
> 
> title from 'nirvana' by miriam kaplan, found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=48&issue=4&page=17
> 
> writing blog is https://knewtonn.blogspot.com/  
> find me on tumblr @sciencematter


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